


Together, If Only in Our Dreams

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, my gift to my tumblr followers for christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams allowed for escape, for joy, for happiness, when it was otherwise denied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together, If Only in Our Dreams

The tower, for that was all it could be, was taller than any other building in the area. Weatherworn stone that had withstood many a storm without so much as a crack surrounded them on all sides, with well-used shutters keeping out the worst of the howling winds outside. If they opened them, a landfall of snow would flutter through, leaving the area around the window freezing cold and soaking wet. They’d learned that one of the first nights they had spent here, much to Asch’s anger and Sync’s twisted amusement.

At least the fire in the hearth was warm and blazing, licking over their skins and heating the small place with ease. It helped that a warm fur had been spread out across the floor at the food of their bed, soft and welcoming and easy to curl up on and forget about the storm outside. Soft light from the fire and similarly placed candles provided just enough to see by, but it was more than enough to make out the man lying on his side, head pillowed in Sync’s lap.

Gently Sync ran his fingers through hair the color of sunsets and blood and slid over the edge of Asch’s ear, grinning when he felt a pointed poke at his foot. He scratched lightly against that scalp and listened to the murmured sigh that left the normally stoic, harsh general. If anything could get Asch to relax, it was moments like this, rare and precious and necessary. Sync’s grin faded into a small smile, as private as Asch’s vulnerability.

“Are you warm enough?” Asch asked, moving his hand to rub against Sync’s socked foot. His toes twitched at the feeling and he raised an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” he said, and words that would have been dismissive or sarcastic were only simple. Without inflection. Asch shifted a little, his eyes closed and breaths even, shoulders for once released of their tension.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Asch commented with a huff. “Normally you have some dumb comment or another to spout.”

“That’s rather rude,” Sync chuckled and relaxed back against the footboard behind him. “Everything I say is important or useful in some way.”

“Says who?”

“I do.”

Asch huffed, and Sync chuckled, and both quieted, listening to the crackling of the wood in the fireplace. Sync’s fingers never lost their rhythm or stroke. It was a dance all their own, nimble and quick and gentle in a way that was so unlike him. Yet he had grown, as had the man lying under his arm. They had changed in some ways, remained stubbornly obstinate in so many others.

He twitched when he felt Asch’s hand slowly take hold of his free one and laced their fingers together. It wasn’t all that comfortable, but Sync found that he didn’t care in the least. Tanned, calloused, scarred hand against pale, calloused, scarred hand created a beautiful contrast in the light of the fireplace.

“Do you remember how we got here?” Sync asked, breaking the silence.

Asch’s brow furrowed and he squeezed Sync’s hand. “What do you mean?”

A secret smile flickered on Sync’s lips, but his eyes were dark, almost haunted. “It’s a simple question – do you remember how we got here?”

“Yeah, we climbed up a tower, closed the door behind us, and have been trying to stay warm.”

Sync chuckled without humor. “Do you remember when? Or how we found this tower? Or how long it’s been since we last ate or drank water or – ”

Before he had a chance to finish, Asch jerked up and away from Sync, lighter eyes blazing and lips pulled into a bloodless, thin line. Sync’s mouth hung open with surprise that he quickly hid – but not quickly enough.

“Stop,” Asch said, and Sync could have sworn he heard a plea in there, mixed in with the usual frustration and affection. “Don’t say anything else.”  
Sync tilted his head to the side, darker gaze never leaving Asch’s. “You know, then. You _do_ remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Asch said. His jaw was so tight that it creaked when he opened his mouth again. Without thinking Sync reached out to run his fingers over the smooth edge, and then up to those perfect lips, tracing along ridges and dryness with a hesitant touch. The air around them seemed to grow colder, as if to purposely fight with the warmth of the fire, and he shivered.

“I’m sorry,” Sync said with no trace of the smile on his face. Only shadows were allowed to crowd into his features, shadows that Asch tried to wipe away with his thumb.

“No, you’re not,” Asch corrected with a hint of reproach. “I know you, Sync, better than anyone else.”

“That’s true at least,” Sync agreed. He couldn’t look away. “Do you think this would have worked like this?”

“Isolated, away from those who would try to hurt either one of us, away from pasts that we can’t leave behind and wounds that will never heal?” Asch considered it, though he kept Sync’s gaze the whole time. “Maybe.”

Sync let out a snort of a laugh. “I doubt it. You’d get bored. I’d get restless. We’d fight.”

“We do that no matter what the circumstances are.”

“Fair enough.”

He didn’t struggle when Asch pulled him close, bigger fingers sliding through his short, green spikes in heavy waves that made Sync drowsy. He tucked his head in, eyes closing, and listened to the gentle thrum of Asch’s heart beneath fabric and skin and bone. Asch’s lips pressed to Sync’s forehead and sent a pleasant shiver down the lithe man’s body.

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Sync settled on.

“Ever the fatalist.”

“I think you mean _realist_.”

Asch huffed and held Sync closer. “Shut up.”

For once, Sync did as Asch bade, and basked in the warmth of the arms around him and the flames at his back. Outside the wind screeched, dragging invisible claws along the stone, but it was all buffeted by the windows’ shutters and the closeness they shared. It was rare to find peace, even rarer for it to last, but as Sync closed his eyes and shuddered (it wasn’t so Asch would hold him more tightly) he thought that, maybe, just maybe, he could get used to a touch of this.

_The tower, for that was all it could be, was taller than any other building in the area – possibly was the only building in the area. Weatherworn stone that had withstood too many storms was cracked and broken, crumbling in places and making the ground shake with every broken, fallen piece. Well-used shutters banged and splintered against the walls they flapped against. Snow poured into the open windows and flooded what must have once been a keep, if now a ruin.  
_

_Snow flew down in a neverending torrent, covering the black and red stains of blood and gore left behind and keeping a pristine surface that hid away so much pain. It was blinding, really, and blocked the sky above him that he knew should have been bright blue. Or had it always been this dark, menacing gray?_

_His lips twitched – brief, too brief –  and though his chest tried to move, the weight of the world and each failed breath was too heavy. His cheeks, already pale, were as white as the fluff that was quickly burying him – a cold, uncomfortable blanket that he could no longer feel. Faded, dull green eyes moved to close, visible only through the slits that remained, and his mouth opened like a stuck fish, leaving snow to gather there too.  
_

_Thought was beyond him, a black void without voice, but he did vaguely recall a phrase, softly spoken or perhaps screamed, defiant until the end, until his body and his heart and his blood gave out –_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_The wind couldn’t carry nothingness, or the essence of sounds unspoken, but he could picture the look he would receive, the twitch of lips. He let his eyes close the rest of the way; snowflakes settled there too, tangling with eyelashes and eyebrows and melting into frigid skin drenched in already frozen blood._

_Not far from where he lay, another, dressed in blacks so stained as to make them unrecognizable, laid on his side, each heavy breath flecked with red and dribbling from the corner of his lips. It froze as it_ plip, plipped _into the snow beneath him, too cold now to do much more. He fell to his back, tasted copper and iron and gore and broken promises on his tongue. He stared up at the sky and cursed it, cursed himself and this world and everything in it – or he would have, if he had been able to create a jumbled thought._

_His fingers twitched, trying to move a broken arm and able to do nothing.  
_

_They were separated by mere feet, but neither would ever turn their head to find out._

_Beneath them, the snow wept red, soaking into the ground and building around them, a frozen grave without thought or mercy or true need. Nature reclaimed, wasting nothing._

_It embraced them when they could not touch each other._


End file.
